," . 







k ' ^.CS /^ 






IAN 7 



i. 



O/NGg 



FROM. 




BY 



'exier fe<«i?lel6r) wersrjDiir 



n. 



?Ulit«tvatcb. 



GH^I§SMA§ SDfSfON. 



LEWISTON 
Slpe fipteripatio^ai Art Pablist? 



1 (,5 




P- 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 

1886, by 

Dexter Carleton Washburn, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, 

at Washington. 



In^pipti°n 



To 

My Cousin, 

JENNIE L, M.H.RI1EN, 

for whom 

Many of thssB Songs 

were writtBii, 

This Little Volume 

is 

Affectionately 

Inscribed, 



J)pef&ce. 



PFFfAPjs. 



^Lhe 



., HE enjoyment the author has taken in com- 
^J posing these Songs, and the pleasure they 
might give to his friends, have been his only 
reasons for writing them ; the hope that they 
may give to their readers, in some degree, a 
similar pleasure, is his only excuse for pub- 
lishing them. 

Some of these verses have never appeared 
in type before, several of them have been 
published in St. Nicholas. Outing, The Cot- 
tage Hearth, Literary Life, and other maga- 
zines and periodicals. 



D. c. w. 



Sriipitvj f^ectoKv], 
Christmas, 1SS6. 



Illu^tp&tion^. 



IJisi of jjijofoqrecvupes. 

Wilier : 

Gb^istnpas Gafol. 

From a Photograph. 

Mv| Iiittle Saigt. 

From a Photograph. 

Isast iMifebt- 

From a Photograph. 

C)prir)q : 

fiaster Monpiipg, 

Frew* o Painting by D. D. Coombs. 

Mvj Blotter. 

From a Photograph. 

©urrjirjep : 

B0W17 bvj tl?e Brook,. 

Frew « Painting by D. D. Coombs. 

Daisies. 

From a Painting by D. D. Coombs. 

Mvj Polo Gap. 

From a Photograph. 

^luluiijr) : 

From a Painting by D. D. Coombs. 



r)o"fo - Or^epcavinqs, 



Drawn by D. D. Coombs. 



Wir>{( 



[ 93 



»urr)rr)er 



Sableaux. 



Sr^e Soogs I Do Not Slog. 



Mvi Polo Gap. 



e/iufurrjr) ; 



Sb^e Nigb* Before a Sirt^oa^. 



End 



nel l^iec*. 



COyNiEPig 



wir)fep. 



ft Phristmas Parol. 
ft Phristmas }Vish. 

ft yALENTINE. 
MY LlTTLE J3AINT. 
J^ORACE. pOOK I., pDE IX. 

Sweeping puT the ^School-^ouse 
J^loor. 

Past Night. 

THE pAMPLIGHTER. 

Tableaux. 



dDppir)Gr. 
Raster ^Morning. 

^UNDAY yVlORNING. 

jElizabeth. 
/My Blotter. 
jIen. 

JHE ^ONGS I po f{OT ^ING, 



C)u 



irjrrjfci 3 . 



Down by the J3rook. 

Daisies. 

Lines on a J3irch-^ark pup. 

ft. Letter. 

/V\.y Jennis J-Jat. 

JAy f olo Pap. 



<a/lufu 



I!)!). 



/^N ^.UTUMN ^YMN. 
^LOWERS. 

Inspirations. 

yk P^OUDY /ViORNING. 

J'he j&ngelus •Bell, 

^A pRTHDAY yflSH. 

PDE FOR THE j^flGHT BEFORE A 

Birthday. 



WIHiG^ 




H 






N 



i 






■ 










a ^ 

I 3 ! 



a. 



Sp b 



.^b 



^ 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

U errily ring the Christmas chimes, 
w %*.• As they merrily rang in the olden 

times ; 
For hearts grown sad, and heads grown gray 
Are young once more on Christmas-day. 

Cherrily blazes the Christmas fire 

On the old stone hearth, as the flames mount 

higher ; 
For children that long have learned to stray, 
Come home again on Christmas-day. 



a 




a yfihmw- 



ho is your Valentine?" asked she: 
A dainty maiden," answered he. 



" Of course ; but is she fair?" said she : 
" As fair as your own self," quoth he. 

"And are her eyes bright?" still asked she 
" I' faith, they are my stars," said he. 



" What may I tell her by ? " said she : 
" The dimple in her cheek," spoke he. 



A VALENTINE. 

"I have one, too ; what else?" laughed she : 
" Her maiden's heart, so true," quoth he. 

" Oh, pshaw ! who is this maid?" cried she : 
" You are my Valentine," said he. 
* * * 



fay HT7>F /WT- 

H^P er picture stands here in my study, 
s^/ ^ On a shelf, by an overgrown book, 
Wherethe curtain, drawn back from the window 
Makes just the right kind of a nook — 

For a Saint who is not awful pious, — 
Wears kid gloves, and velvet, and furs, 

And a Gainsborough hat, and whose tresses 
Are " frizzled " as cutely as hers. 

Of course it is only a picture, — 

And fancy at that : but who cares ! 

And the legend below, " Come and kiss me," 
Isn't what a Saint usually bears : 




Her picture stands here in my study, 
On a shelf, by an overgrown book." 



MY LITTLE SAINT. 

But still I have made her the patron 
Of all that I write, say, or do : — 

I call her "Saint Dimple Cheek,"— really 
I think that sounds classic, don't you ? 

And here, through the long winter evenings. 
As I sit with my papers and books, 

Leaning back in my low wooden rocker, 
My little saint smilingly looks. 

And here every evening my candle, 

(And the paper shade, too, sometimes.) burns. 
On my little saint's dim, curtained altar, 

Till her hair to a bright halo turns. 

But still I'll confess that the worship 

I pay, is not wholly unmixed ; 
In fact, that quite often upon her 

'Tis my eyes, not my thoughts, that are fixed. 

And, that, as the faithful believer 
Who kneels by an image to pray, 

Prays not to the image, but worships 
The spirit it figures, alway : — 

So I, at my little saint's altar, 

See not there the face in her niche 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

But smilingly think of another 

Just such a demure little witch, — 

Who once said the picture was " pretty," 
And then, of course, had to demur, 

When I acquiesced promptly, and hinted 
I thought it was very like her. 

Well, well, I shall have to be plugging, 
Not sitting here wasting my time : 

She would laugh, — and — well, just to amuse her, 
I guess I must send her my rhyme ! 
-$• * # 



^Pf^p£._j3pPJC I. ppp IX. 



5 



ee Soracte's dazzling glow, 

Covered deep in virgin snow ! 
While the laboring forests stand 
Bowing to the grateful land ; 
And the river's glistening band 

Is congealed. 
Banish cold ! and on the hearth 
Pile the logs with social mirth : 
Thaliarchus, draw the wine, 
Mellowed on the Sabine vine ; 
And in ancient jar of thine 

Long concealed. 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

Trust the gods with all thy cares : 
They the storm-winds, waging wars 
With the billows dark and cold, 
Will control, and safe withhold 
Cypress tall, nor ashes old 

To disturb. 
What to-morrow's grief shall be 
Strive not ere the time to see : 
If to Fortune thou shalt climb 
Count it so much gained of Time ; 
Neither Youth's romantic rhyme 

Try to curb. 

Ere old age comes, all too soon. 
Beat the dance to jovial tune : 
Seek the green, and gayly rove 
Midst soft murmurings of love, 
While the twilight stars above 

Mark the hour. 
Hear the maid's betraying laugh, 
By the wall concealed but half! 
Seize a love-pledge from her hand, 
Or her white arm's golden band : 
See her, laughing, coyly stand 

In your power ! 
* * * 



wwrw ppt tw pppppywm r yw^ 



j 



'd dismissed the " class in spelling" 

Quite a little while before, 
And we'd just gone through our " parsing 

As the short hand got to four. 



Then the "big girls" started homeward, 
Chatting round the open door ; 

But I stayed and helped Miss 'Villa 

While she swept the school-house floor. 

Down the aisles our busy brooms went, 
While the dirt flew out before ; 

Till we made a mammoth dust-heap 
Just behind the entry door. 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

And I told her how we students 

Managed things at " Thirty-four," — 

Once, a term we made the bed up, 

And the next term swept the floor ! 

While our hands and tongues were busy, 
As I glanced the benches o'er 
" What a pretty maiden," thought I, 

" Sweeping out the school-house floor ; 

" Such plump arms and graceful ankles 
Faith I never saw before ; 
Bless me, isn't this romantic, 

Sweeping out the school-house floor ! " 

Then she bade me bring the dust-pan 
Hanging up behind the door ; 

And expertly swept the dirt in 
While I held it on the floor. 

Then she quickly tied her hood on, 

While I locked the school-house door, 

And I left her at the corner, — 

Thus we swept the school-house floor ! 
«- -* *» 







t was here that we were standing 
In the party's whirl, last night ; 

Leaning on the polished newel, 
As it shone beneath the light. 



And I laughed, and called him " silly 
To be talking so, right here : 

He could call on me some evening, 
In, — perhaps, — well — say a year ! 

But I felt a twinge of conscience 
As I left him standing there, 






SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

With his face so sad and weary, 
And that earnest, thoughtful air. 

Then, to-night, this train disaster ! 

All the evening paper's filled 
With those cruel " press dispatches" : — 

His name's in the list of " killed." 

Oh, if I could but have known it 
When he spoke to me last night, 

I'd have answered him in earnest, 
Not in words so hard and light. 

There ! do hear it ! it's a caller, — 

Oh, I can't see one to-night ! 
I have stood here thinking, dreaming 

Till my hair's a perfect fright. 

Oh, I'm caught, — I hear them coming ! — 
I'm not in, James, — see my head ! 

Mr. Who, James What ? Tom Fielding? — 
Hush, man, — don't you know? — he's 
dead. 

*' Not quite dead yet"? — Oh, Tom Fielding, 
Is it really you, — alive? 



LAST NIGHT. 

Just escaped? — with one arm broken ?- 
You were one of only five ? 

May you make your call this evening? 

It was here last night, at ten, 
I said No : but, — don't you really 

Think its been a year since then? 
* * * 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

And well for me, 

I think, would it be 
As I toil up life's stormy hill, 

If I could but light 

Some beacon bright 
In the storm, that should brighten still. 
*■ -$ * 




w 



y sweet little nun, with the soft, pretty face, 
Forgive me, I pray, but your hood's 
in disorder, 
And your ribbon shows there — may I put it in 

place, 
Without breaking the rules of your sisterhood's 

order? 
There, that is just right, — so the kerchief will 

show 
Inside of your nun's hood, or whatever this is ; 
But, Santa Maria ! why, this never'll do, — 
Don't you know, Sister Martha, black nuns don't 
wear frizzes? 

I really am shocked at such folly and sin ; 

Let me brush them back, so, from your fore- 
head and temples ; 

O, dear, now you've pulled the hood off from 
your chin ; 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

Whoever did see a black nun with such dim- 
ples ! 

You really must let your hood cover them, so. 

Look meek, — now look down, — there, that's 
perfect ! — " you'll smother? " 

But other black nuns have been roasted, you 
know ; 

'Tis but little to have a silk handkerchief bother- 

Look as though you were thinking of all your 
bad deeds ; 

But here, what is this? — you must cover that 
locket, 

And those rings on your hand. " Must be tell- 
ing your beads?" 

Well, then, oft' with them, quick ; here they go, 
in my pocket. 

And now let me see how you'll walk ; — very 
slow ; 

Ah ! that was well done ; and — but here, stop 

that switching ! 
And if you could manage to be, — well, you 

know, 
To be just a little less, — O less bewitching, — 



TABLEAUX. 

'Twould be better, I think. But what's this that 

you say ? — 
,, Don't believe you can learn? Let them go on 

without you?" 
My dear Sister Martha, now don't pout that 

way ; 
You know I don't mention the good things about 

you. 



She has gone through the archway, — the scene 
has begun : 

What a lucky chap he who may ever possess 
her ; 

I' faith, if there was such a cute little nun 

It would be a hard chance for her Father Con- 
fessor. 

I fear it would scatter his Latin and Greek 

If he once caught a glimpse of the sweet little 
sister. 

What a rumpus she'd make! Ere she'd been 
there a week, 

I'd swear every monk in the convent had kissed 
her! 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS, 



L'ENVOY. 



Well that was last night, and the tableaux are 
done ; 

But still, as I take down the stage and the awn- 
ing, 

The thought of my sweet-faced, demure little 
nun 

Brings a smile to my lips in the midst of my 
yawning. 




&P^inG. 




Radiant lilies, pure and white, 

Opening their hearts in the morning light. 



§M^Q, 



3) 



elicate perfumes, faint and rare, 
Dreamily floating in soft spring air : 



Radiant lilies, pure and white, 

Opening their hearts in the morning light 

Glorious beams from the Easter sun ; 
Glorious news from the Risen One. 

— Cottage Hearth. 
* * * 



r 

V ashes long, o'er laughing eyes, 
* ^^^ Vainly trying to look wise ; 

Fragrance like a flower's breath, — 

Cute, demure Elizabeth. 



Dimpled cheek and rosy ear, 
With the brown hair rippling near, 
Where the shadow deepeneth, — 
Witching, coy Elizabeth. 

Small red lips and rounded chin 
Just above her cameo-pin, 
Moving gently with her breath, — 
Bonnie, fair Elizabeth. 



ELIZABETH. 



Tiny foot that peepeth out 
From beneath her petticoat ; 
Ribbon bright that glisteneth. 
Dainty-robed Elizabeth. 



IS a dark, stormy night, and it's fast grow- 
ing late ; 

Outside the fog's thick, — the pane's 
dripping with water: 
But in here my fire burns bright in the grate, 
While I lazily lean o'er my work, on my 
blotter. 

Ah, Jennie, my friend, when your mind has 
been pinned 
Down to Logic all day, till your brain seems 
to totter, 
What a pleasure it is to fling books to the wind, 
And a moment to lean with your arm on 
your blotter ! 




In here my fire burns bright in the grate, 
While I lazily lean o'er my work, on my blotter. 



MY BLOTTER. 

And, Jennie, my friend, do you s'pose I can find, 
In this queer, jostling world, where each one 
is a plotter, 
Some fair, dainty maiden, whose heart and 
whose mind 
Are as pure as the soft, creamy folds of my 
blotter ? 

Will her smile be as bright, and her heart be as 
true 
As this little bluebird? And her thought 
without spot, or 
A shade of deceit ? Will her eyes be as blue 
As the jaunty, gay ribbon you tied on my 
blotter ? 

Will her throat be as soft, and as white as the 
snow, 
And her breath be as fragrant as roses sweet 
ottar? — 
(The deuce, though, there goes a great blot on 
this, now ! 
However, you know it was made for a 
blotter.) 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

Do you think 1 will find her? Ah, well, if I do 

Come across, in my travels, some day, this 

fair daughter, 

I'll lay my heart down at her feet. Let you know 

If I meet with success, by a note, from my 

blotter. 

* * * 



(***h jaunty, white hat, of outrageous size ; 
QyC And a pair of those mischievous, jet- 
*^J Vw' black eyes 

That were made to bewilder the sons of men ; 
And the sauciest mouth in the world : — that's 
Jen. 

A slim, lithe form, full of girlish grace, 
And the most provokingly pretty face 
That ever made one turn round again 
To look at it twice on the street : — that's Jen. 

From the soft, white muslin around her throat 
To the snow-white edge of her petticoat 
You just catch a glimpse of now and then, 
An irresistible dash. — that's Jen. 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

And one that I heard in a ball-room 
Was the saddest one of all. 

They come like the inspirations 

That came to the prophets of old ; 
And they seem like a half-blown rose-bud, 

Just ready to burst and unfold. 
And I catch my breath at the sweetness 

Of its odor within my breast ; 
But I sigh for the measureless beauty 

That never can be expressed. 

And I think, " When the day is over, — 

When the work and the care are done, — 
I will sing this song in the gloaming, 

To gladden some weary one." 
But when I go home, in the twilight, 

There are other things I must do ; 
And I get no time for the singing 

Until after the evening is through. 

And so I go on without singing 

The songs I have felt and heard ; 

While of all their beauty and sweetness, 
The world knows never a word. 



THE SONGS I DO NOT SING. 

And I say, "It is wrong to keep them, 
For they do not belong to you ; — 

You are only the harp in the window 

For the breath of the wind to blow 
through." 

And they make, with their heavenly rhythm, 

The poor little songs I have sung 
Seem harsh as the jangled chiming 

When the bells are backward rung. 
But still the days go without singing, 

Till at last the songs fade, one by one ; 
And all I can do, as they vanish, 

Is to sigh for the songs that are gone. 

— Literary Life. 





I 

51. 



CPk 



a 






.ajvyyran. 



M 'm down by the brook, Jennie, under thetrees, 
}j Where we used to read in the shade ; 
^^ While the stream babbled by, on its old 
blackened rocks, 
And the light o'er your sun-bonnet played. 
And the red moss that grows on the slippery 
stones 
Has the same graceful, feathery look ; 
And the willows that bend from the bank, up 
above, 
Are still dipping their leaves in the brook. 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

The dry grass still grows in the weather-stained 
cracks, 
And the golden-rod bends by the ledge ; 
And the foam eddies past, just the same, on the 
stream. 
And the bushes are skirting its edge. 
The old seat is still here, with its moss-cushioned 
back ; 
But somehow it don't seem the same : 
And the noise of the brook has a different sound. 
And seems to be whispering your name. 

And so I've been lying here, [en, half asleep. 

With the leaves and the sun on my book. 
And wondering what made it so different then. 

When you were down here bv the brook. 
And after I've looked at the matter all through. 

With my hat tipped down over my face. 
I've reached the conclusion :it last, cousin fen, 

It was you that I liked, not the place. 

— Outing. 







PrtWr- 



Wich man, poor man, beggar man, sief 
Wait till I tell 'ou what 'ou'll be." 



poor man, beggar man, 



\ A / ich man, 
VV sief- 



Wait till I tell 'ou what Wll be ; — 
1 Doctor, lawyer, Inzun shief,' 

'Ou couldn't be zat one, don't 'ou see ? 

1 Wich man, poor man, beggar man, sief' — 
Aren't 'ou glad it isn't zat one? 

' Doctor, lawyer, Inzun shief,' — 
Wait a minute, I'se almost done. 

' Wich man' — zats the lastest one, 
So zat is what 'ou 's doing to be. 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

• Wich man, poor man, beggar man, sief- 
I dess I must see who'll marry me : 

' Doctor, lawyer, Inznn shief,' 

Who do 'on 'spose it's doing to be? 

' Wich man' — why, it turns ze same ! 

I doesn't see how zat can be ! — 
O, ess, I does, — it's dest as plain, — 

O' course it means W// marry me" 

— St. Nicholas. 



WRITTEN ON A BIRCH-BARK CUP. 



G: 



rystal cup or golden goblet 

Were not for your lips too fair ; 
Yet this little birchen dipper 

Claims at least one virtue rare : 
For before your ruby lip 
O'er its raveled edge did dip, 

On the mountain streamlet's bank. 
From it never mortal drank. 
& * * 



5 



TRIOLET. 

he wore my tennis hat that day, 
As she stood there beside the net ; 
And Hebe could not match the way 
She wore my tennis hat that day : 
I hear her still, call " Love All— Flay ! " 
But though she played against me, — 

yet 
She wore my tennis hat that day, 

As she stood there beside the net ! 
# # ** 



M fpyo pAf. 

Jt is faded and worn, and the weather 
Has turned it a rather dull red ; 
But I have the old feeling of freedom 

When I stick it round here on my head. 

It brings back those sets of Lawn Tennis 
Kate Harding and I used to play ; 

And how she would get the " advantage" 
In a most unaccountable way. 

I wore it that day at the races, 

When we paddled in second-best, 

While Gordon led off by two boat-lengths 
And we were as far from the rest. 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

And then, on that last Friday evening, 

When I came back from yachting with Ray 

And knew I must leave Monday morning, 
As college commenced the next day ; — 

How, when I called over at " Edgemere," 

I found Jen was up at the lake 
For a week, — when Fd just left the fellows 

And pawned my last day for her sake. 

Next morning I started to tramp it, 
With shot-gun and rod for excuse ; 

And Madge took me up in her dog-cart 
As far as the road was in use. 

And then I had eight miles of tramping ; 

But somehow it didn't seem long, 
As I gave a fresh tip to my polo, 

And whistled an old college song. 

Ah, that afternoon, I remember, 

As I sat on the rocks at her side, — 

Just far enough off from the cottage, 
While Fan kept discreetly aside, — 



MY POLO CAP. 

How I told Jen of all my love-troubles, — 
How Flo and I'd broken, — "for good " : 

And she gave advice like a Mentor, 

And scolded me out of my " mood." 

And then how I made that old boat go, 

As we rowed down the lake to the mills ; 

While the water reflected the sunset 
That was fading out, over the hills. 

Then we waited and let the Professor 
Overtake us, at last, in his birch, 

And I got aboard like a green-horn, 
And gave him a terrible lurch. 

And then I watched Jen turn the boat round, 
And the water and sunset-tints blend : 

And looked back and waved my old polo 
As we paddled the birch round the bend. 

And the long homeward tramp in the evening. 
And what I was thinking of then ; — 

The present, the past, and the future, — 
The lake, and the day, and of Jen. 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

And as I strode on down the roadside, 

With the dew and the dust on my shoes, 

How squarely I braced up my shoulders, 
No one but my old polo knows. 

Well, that was my last tramp that summer- 
All summers must come to an end ; 

But still, when I put on my polo 

It seems like an old, trusted friend. 




fJMum^\ 







fin ^jjyjj/viN ^yyviK. 

The Jlozvers wet with morning Jezv 

Their incense raise, O Lord, to you. 



Jiei^ff)^. 



v-'Iro* 



ftp fijjjjjfAH fiy/A}*. 



iROiM jeweled censers rich and fair, 
Swung low by breath of perfumed air, 
The flowers wet with morning dew 
Their incense raise, O Lord, to von. 



The gorgeous clouds of light that lie 
Along the glowing western sky : — 
The foiling leaf's most brilliant hue ;- 
Were painted, Lord of Light, by you. 



O Lord of Life, within our hearts 
The sense of all thy bounty starts ; 
With flowers, leaves, and sky, we too 
Would raise, O Lord, our voice to you, 

# * * 




e send them to a child-friend : — send 
them still to one 
Whom years and sorrow have left bowed 
and lonely : 
To those with whom acquaintance has but just 
begun, 
And to our best and dearest, we send only — 
Flowers. 



We send them to a friend in luxury and need : 
We send them for the burial and the wed- 
ding : — 
It is the same we send the living and the dead. 
We send to those who bitter tears are shed- 
ding.— 

Flowers. 



FLOWERS. 



We send them to a lady friend before the ball : 
We send them to our relatives,— our lover: 
And yet they say the very word we mean to all. 
What thoughts of grief, joy, sorrow, love, 
hang over 

Flowers ! 



# * * 



JIWWTW 



CT" 

v-' ELI 



' ell me not the ancient prophets 
C/ Came of an extinguished line ; — 
That they left no true descendants 

Who are touched with flame divine. 

Many an unknown, unnamed singer 
Feels a spirit loose his tongue, — 

Feels the power within, to utter 
Psalms and poems never sung. 

Woe to him who such inbreathings 
Deigns to slight, or dares neglect ; — 

Or, beneath the smouldering ashes 
Fails the god-spark to detect. 



INSPIRATIONS. 

'Tis a message sent from Heaven, — 

You, a messenger, at best : 
Till his errand is delivered 

May no message-bearer rest. 

Listen to the heaven-sent message, 
Be you poet, painter, priest, — 

Mould it in your noblest image, 
Send it forth unscarred, at least. 

You may not the final reader 

Of your sealed dispatches know ; 

You may only catch a glimmer 
Of the Jove-sent fire's glow : 

But some heart is surely waiting 
Your dispatches to receive : — 

That your post is worth a life-long 
Struggle, you may well believe. 

—Literary Life. 



A CLOUDY AlORXIXG f\ THP COUNTRY 




urora leaves her early couch 
And mounts the sky in haste, to vouch 
For Sol's returning light. 
Her crimson banners herald forth 
To denizens of heaven and earth 
The banishment of Night. 



The early wight whose weary eyes 
Behold her signals in the skys. 

And flaunting streamers gay, 
Would tain assay to prophesy, 

(And give experience the lie) 
"A pleasant day to-day." 



A CLOUDY MORNING. 

But ere the day is well begun 

A cold, gray mist shuts out the sun, — 

The clouds are dark and blue. 
The farmer stands and looks around, — 
On mist and cloud and sky and ground 

In doubt what best to do. 

Dead leaves shake on the naked trees ; 
And on the cheerless, chilly breeze 

Stray flakes go floating past. 
The air seems close, — the hours lag by,- 
A leaden pall shuts out the sky : — 

By noon 'tis snowing fast. 
* * * 



\ istex, my soul : 'tis the Angelus bell 
/^%^_ Dolefully, soulfully tolling its knell ; 
Tolling a knell for the dying day : — 
Calling to sinners to stop and pray, — 
Pray for forgiveness, and peace, and rest. 
Pray to the Mother of Christ, the Blest ; 
™Are Sattctissima^ or a pro nobis* 1 
Now and when death is near, " or a pro n 

Think what a burden of sin and crime, 
Rolls from the world at Angelus time. 
Up through the peaceful evening air. 
Floats into space, on the wings of prayer ! 
Think ot the hearts and the heads bowed low. 
Touched by the tints ot the sunset's glow : 
Think of the endless wave of prayer 
That rolls round the earth in the twilight air ! 



THE ANGELUS BELL. 

May it not be that the Saints above 
Pause and gaze earthward with looks of love, 
As up through the infinite depths of air 
Comes floating the incense of evening prayer, 
Laden with cares and sins forgiven ; — 
Promised pardon and hopes of Heaven, 
And the longing sighs that of old age tell ; 
And the far-away sound of the Angelus bell? 

Then pause, my soul, as the sun goes down 
On the fair, green fields and the busy town ; 
Pause and think of the day that is gone, — 
The words that are spoken, the deeds that are 

done, — 
Pause and pray for forgiveness and rest, 
And a home at last with the Mother Blest. 
For the day shall come when thine earthly ear, 
No longer the Angelus bell shall hear : 
But thou shalt rise on its tolling knell. 
Then listen ! my soul, to the Angelus bell ! 
* # # 



1\(T 

\l ay the stars that looked down on thy 
w \^^ birthday. 

Grow bright as the autumns roll by : 
And adding each year still a new one. 

Like jewels in crystals on high, 
Shine forth in a fair constellation 

To brighten thy life's evening sky. 
* * * 



PPF 

FOR THE NIGHT BEFORE A. BIRTHDAY. 

c 

I ome, brighten the fire, and fill up the glasses ! 
^sbb^ Let us shorten the evening with laughter 

and song : 
Here's a health to Old Time, — let us drink as 
he passes, 
And wish him good luck as he hurries along. 

Another year's dead, then ; well, peace to its 

ashes ! 

May its bones be at rest with its ancestors' dust. 

But why should I mourn, or a tear wet the lashes 

That twelve months more are past? I 

am wiser, I trust. 

Old Time's an old miser, with all his treasures : 
'Tis but slowly he doles out our joys and our 
pains. 
On the whole, though, he's fair ; — for all griefs 
there are pleasures, 
And he brings us no loss that has not its 
own srains. 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

Though the year that is past has been full of 
lost chances, — 
Opportunities wasted, by night and bv 
day, — 
Yet why should I follow its form with sad 
glances 
As it turns the last corner, and hurries away ? 



Let us laugh while youth lasts ; — time enough 
to be dreary 

When its flowers have faded, its leaves have 

grown brown ; 
Time enough to be sad when the heart has 

grown weary 
Of bearing the burden 'twould gladly lay 

down. 



Then brighten the fire, and fill up the glasses ! 

Let us drown all such thoughts with a laugh 

and a song : 

Here's a toast to Old Time, — let us drink as he 

passes, 

And hail the old chap as he shuffles along. 



ODE FOR THE NIGHT BEFORE A BIRTHDAY. 

I say, Father Time, — look alive, — turn your 
glass there : — 
The sand's all run out, — you'll get left some 
fine day ! 
I forgot: — "Local Time," — not the "Stand- 
ard " : — I pass : — there, 
I'm glad vou keep on in the old-fashioned 
way. 

Well, well, time wags on ; and for one, I'm glad 
of it:— 
To be, all one's life, just so old, — what a bore ! 
Let them call back their childhood who can, 
and who love it, — 
Pm content that my mumps and my measles 
are o'er. 

Well, friends, it is late, and I see you are yawn- 
ing :— 
The bell on the steeple, the clock on the wall. 
Say the evening is past, and day soon will be 
dawning. 
We must part, or we'll hear shrill old Chant- 
icleer's call. 



SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 

Yes, Time, it is said (and 'tis true), works 
great changes, — 
Weaves the world in a web of a magical 
spell : — 
But there's none that's more queer than the trick 
where he ranges 
From one year to the next at the stroke of a 
bell." 

But once more by the fire let us fill up our 
glasses, — 
Join once more in the laugh, the familiar 
old song ! 
Here's the health of Old Time ; — let us drink 
as he passes, 
And cheer his old bones as he hobbles along. 

And now, friends, good-night. Yes, I know 
your kind wishes, 
And I thank you for them from the depth of 
my heart : 
One true word of a friend is worth all of Love's 
kisses. 
Let us shake hands all round with a will, ere 
we part, — 



ODE FOR THE NIGHT BEFORE A BIRTHDAY. 

But no wishes to-night: let them wait till to- 
morrow ; 
They will be all the better, and, — hark ! 
what was that? 
Yes, the bell tolling midnight. For joy or for 
sorrow 
Another year's come, like a silent winged bat. 

Pleasant dreams and sound sleep, and clear 
heads in the morning ; 
I must sit up a while, with my thoughts, ere 
I go, 
And make good resolves for the year that is 
dawning, 
Ere the daylight creeps in where the fire 
burns low. 




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